


Porno Chic

by quietprofanity, Sandoz_Iscariot17



Category: Watchmen (Comic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 05:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11594109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietprofanity/pseuds/quietprofanity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandoz_Iscariot17/pseuds/Sandoz_Iscariot17
Summary: When Nite Owl and Rorschach crash the premiere of the mob's latest hardcore film, Deep Throat, they get caught up in the screening and life imitates art. (Alternate Summary: Nite Owl and Rorschach watch porn.)





	1. Porno Chic

**Author's Note:**

> Watchmen is not ours. Thanks to our beta brancher and ook for her information about projectors. Thank you to slipstreamborne for the lovely art!

“How far does a girl have to go to untangle her tingle?” the ad cheekily asked Dan as the newspaper slapped his worktable. Lips parted, he rubbed his hands clean of engine grease on an old rag as he looked at the paper, then back at the man who’d tossed it there.

_Oh._

Rorschach had caught Dan checking Archie’s internals, prepping the airship for flight. He’d been late getting ready for patrol—a meeting at the Ornithological Society had run thirty minutes too long—and in his haste he had forgotten all about the copy of the _Daily News_ he’d left on a bench, and what section he had folded open.

Skin flicks. Nudie Cuties. Double pleasure double features at the Roxy and the Rialto and the Venus, all advertised in thick, bold print and triple Xs. In widescreen and in color, _coming to a theater near you_. And the largest ad, taking up nearly a third of the page, was a premiere at the New Amsterdam. A blurry, curly-haired woman made the invitation, her lips a wide, round O. _Deep Throat_.

“Heard about this, Daniel?”

As Rorschach spoke, Dan thought he saw a woman’s silhouette in the blots of his partner’s mask, like an image created after looking at a bright light.

“Sure, I’ve heard of it,” Dan said. He turned his attention to the equipment on his worktable, not really in the mood for another one of Rorschach’s speeches on the degradation of modern society – or questions about whether Dan was thinking of contributing to it. (Which he wasn’t – he was just looking at the ads earlier. Nothing wrong with that.) “Have you heard any more tips about the mob?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

Rorschach grunted impatiently. He picked up the newspaper again and pointed to the words “New Amsterdam.”

“This _is_ the tip, Daniel,” he said. “Been hearing chatter in the underworld. They say a large percent of the theater’s profits go directly to them.”

“Dirty movies?” Dan lifted one eyebrow. The mob had been muscling in on the Times Square porn shops since the 60s. In the semi-legal world of vice, owners weren’t likely to spill to the cops when the mob was breathing down their necks. Why not step up and take over the adult theaters? And this porno, _Deep Throat_ , had been going off like a string of firecrackers across the grindhouses, attracting audiences beyond the usual hustlers and perverts and pickpockets. He’d even heard Carson make a joke about it. If it was making money, there was probably a dark hand waiting to collect.

“Any word on who’s behind it? The King of Skin, the Perainos, the Racket Boys?”

Rorschach tightened his fists; Dan listened to the creak of old leather. “Three broken fingers and zero names. My suspicion is that it’s someone new, someone we haven’t heard of yet. Unsurprising, really. Degenerates on 42nd Street multiply like maggots on rotting meat. But it’s here.” Rorschach looked at Dan while his finger prodded the newspaper. Dan thought he wouldn’t be so eager if he could see what part of the woman’s body he was poking.

Pulling his cowl over his head and adjusting his goggles in a swift, all right let’s do this motion, he said, “If you think it’s a good lead.”

Rorschach nodded curtly and tossed the paper over his shoulder like a piece of litter, striding towards the Owlship. Nite Owl’s mouth twisted into a grimace as he bent to pick it up. Out of the corner of his eye, the woman in the ad seemed to be blowing him a kiss.

\---

Ever since Rorschach began his career eight years ago, he had seen his share of horrors – acts of sadism, brutality and depravity to curdle the blood of the most hardened cop. But he had never seen anything quite like this.

“Daniel,” he asked, pointing out of the Owlship’s left window, “Why are these people here?”

Rorschach had been to 42nd Street before, that nest of hookers and transvestites and other assorted dregs of society. He had seen the fat, trenchcoat-wearing men sporadically lurch into the theaters as if the weight of their shame rested heavy on their backs, the dark-eyed and hollowed-out drug addicts stumble down the street without direction or sense of self-preservation. Yet on this evening the area outside the New Amsterdam was packed not just with the perverts and the hippies but with men in business suits and even women, with people who looked … middle class.

Nite Owl seemed at a loss for words as he let the ship hover above the roof of the theatre. He stood up and moved to open the Owlship’s hatch. “It’s insane out there, isn’t it? I knew this show was popular, but not like this. If you’re right the mob may be getting thousands a night.”

“I thought I saw an old woman down there,” Rorschach said as he followed him.

“I know,” Nite Owl looked down at Rorschach as the latter prepared to let himself out through the hatch. “Guess the world is changing quickly.”

Rorschach shuddered. He’d read about the film’s obscene content in _The New Frontiersmen_ but the idea that so many would line up to watch it, like animals returning to their own vomit, struck a deep chord of repulsion inside him. Rorschach let himself dangle out of the Owlship before dropping down to the roof.

Nite Owl was quick to follow, locking Archie behind him with a remote he attached to his belt. His goggles made the lights of 42nd Street seem even more bright and garish, all blazing pink and yellow neon. Turning his back to the peep shows and weapon shops he saw Rorschach at the rooftop door, digging at the lock with his amateur lock pick.

He scrunched his shoulders. “Rusted.”

Nite Owl touched his arm, silently telling him to step out of the way, and then put his strength behind a kick that shattered the prehistoric lock. The door popped like a gunshot. “After you,” he said with a satisfied grin.

Exhaling through his nostrils, Rorschach replied with a “Thank you,” that sounded like it had been pulled out of him like an old tooth.

They entered the darkness.

The New Amsterdam theatre had been beautiful in its golden age, in the _Ziegfeld Follies_ days. The second floor lobby had been closed for repairs, and Nite Owl flattened himself against a wall as he peeked over yellow tape down at the first floor lobby. You could still see the theatre’s original magnificence in its enormous bronze elevators and stone sculptures; the patterned marble floors and crystal chandeliers; the Art Nouveau enchanted forest of nymphs and centaurs carved into the theatre doors. But the long, hard decades had left the theatre scuffed and scarred. An alky had passed out on the marble staircase, and a miasma of cigarette smoke and popcorn and human sweat clogged the air. The ceiling bore scars of robberies past in the bullet holes circling the chandeliers, and in the end it reminded Nite Owl of a bombed out Cathedral.

Shaking his head as if clearing his thoughts, Nite Owl turned to follow Rorschach, who was investigating a long string of doors in the empty hallway.

“I’m not hearing much inside the rooms,” Nite Owl whispered as he tried the first door on the right, which turned out to only be a broom closet. “There’s so much noise coming from downstairs …”

Rorschach let out a “hurm” of assent. The people filing into their seats created a low-level hum that made it hard to hear. He tested a door on the left, found it locked, and was about to break it down when the noise level suddenly dropped. It was followed by a loud, flapping noise echoing from down the hall, then the jaunty notes of an electric keyboard.

“Sounds like the movie started,” Nite Owl whispered. He tried the second door and found it open.  
Rorschach stepped inside the room. It was full of huge, metal cases of film reels stacked on shelves, but some papers lay scattered about the floor and in between the cases. “Should investigate what’s here. You keep lookout.”

Nite Owl nodded. He stood with his back against the doorframe, his head turned to look down the hallway in the direction of the projection room. God, this music was irritating. Did people actually like this stuff? To his relief it was soon over, replaced by the sound of women speaking words he couldn’t make out.

“Not much here,” Rorschach murmured. He looked up at Nite Owl from where he was crouched on the floor. “See anything?”

He shook his head. The unintelligible words dissipated, were replaced by the sound of woman’s moans echoing down the hall. Nite Owl swallowed, pushed a finger beneath the edges of his cowl, providing himself temporary relief from how it clung to his face. “Are you almost done?”

Rorschach stood and dusted his hands on his trenchcoat as if wiping off some unseen filth. The shaft of light from the open doorway illuminated one of the scraps on the floor. A dog-eared centerfold from some porno mag, with a focus on a thick, reddened—anyway, Nite Owl looked swiftly up at his partner’s face. Heat crept up his neck.

“It’s only refuse. No receipts, no IOUs, nothing.”

“This is a bit bigger than just skimming a few bucks from the till,” Nite Owl replied with a slight cock of his head. “If this guy’s a pro, he probably isn’t leaving a paper trail--” his voice cut off abruptly as movements in the hall hooked his attention.

A short, gnarled gnome of a man closed the door on another hideous pop song. He yawned and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket before shuffling into the men’s room. Nite Owl signaled Rorschach with his eyes and with barely a sound the two men slid inside the unlocked room. As soon as the door clicked shut Rorschach snatched a metal folding chair from a corner and jammed it under the knob.

The projection room. Nite Owl let out a breath, hands on his hips. A dark, narrow space with black walls. There wasn’t much to see, besides the two large projectors that took up most of the room, one rattling and beaming light while the other stayed silent: a shelf bearing large, dented film canisters, hooks on the wall holding up film scraps, and a poster for an exploitation flick called RED HEADED WHIP (the voluptuous woman in the bondage mask striking her oiled, half-naked slaves with a cat o’ nine tails seemed vaguely familiar). The sounds of the projector were almost drowned out by the soundtrack. The ear-splitting pop song was battling for supremacy against urgent, orgasmic moans; Nite Owl couldn’t bring himself to look out and see who’d win.

“We can look down and see if there are any checkers and sweepers in the audience and follow them to Mr. Big. Rorschach--” He stopped.

Rorschach stood against the door, head leaning on the wood. His body was slightly curled in on itself.

“Hey, are you all right?” Nite Owl asked.

Rorschach looked back at Nite Owl. The music had stopped, was replaced once again by the sounds of women talking. Despite the noise of the movie and the projector, Nite Owl thought he could hear Rorschach breathing heavily. The blots on his mask were moving in long, slow waves, like something hypnotic, maybe even sedu…

Suddenly, the moment was over. Rorschach let out a low growl, straightened himself out of the crouch. “Momentary distraction. Apologies.”

Nite Owl nodded. He moved toward the one of the four small, glass-less windows on the wall of the projection room, the one furthest away from the running projector. After a moment’s hesitation, Rorschach joined him at his side. The window was so small they had to huddle together to look out of it, only the barest of space between the two of them. Nite Owl opened one of the pouches on his utility belt and handed Rorschach the miniature night vision binoculars within. “Here. Otherwise it’ll be kind of hard for you to see what’s going on with the movie playing.”

Rorschach snatched the binoculars with a force that surprised Nite Owl. “I’m not so easily distracted, Daniel.”

“That’s not what I…I mean, the light…” Nite Owl sighed and switched his own goggles to night vision.

He scanned the audience – while the projector window didn’t allow him to see much, there didn’t seem to be anyone scoping out the crowd. After a few minutes of searching, a song began to play – something that seemed to actually have a bass and a guitar this time. _Well,_ he thought,  _I could look for a minute …_

The screen was massive and full of people fucking. A woman with thick dark hair and heavy makeup spread her legs on her living room couch, happily licking a cock while another man thrust into her from behind. Quick cuts revealed another woman wiggling her ass in the air and biting her lower lip like a schoolgirl. The guitar riff led into a cover of “Love is Strange” that wouldn’t be burning up the charts any time soon. But the tune was familiar, easing Nite Owl into the scene even as his night vision goggles gave the writhing shapes a greenish, alien color.

His mouth went dry. This was nothing he hadn’t seen before of course, whether he was one of the happy participants or sitting in the dark watching a stag film. He’d been to 42nd Street in the daylight hours, shifting through the grimy bookstores and letting his fingers linger over smutty magazines and yellow paperbacks (always keeping his head down and his glasses on like an invisible shield, because _really, Danny, you’re better than this, you have to be_ ).

A cock the size of a Mercedes slid out of the woman’s pussy. Pearly cum dribbled over the white flesh of her ass.

He swallowed. There was a heat in his belly like embers being stirred.

It had been a long time since he’d been to the bookstores and the sex shows, since he’d swallowed his shame and discovered other ways to fulfill his needs. _It’s okay, Danny boy, it’s just sex_.

But he was embarrassed when Rorschach picked up that page of the newspaper, saw the woman with the pornographic mouth and what she advertised. He’d been happy to avoid another self-righteous lecture, true, but underneath that relief there had been…disappointment? What had he wanted Rorschach to say instead?

Nite Owl stole a sideways glance at his partner. He was looking at the crowd with the binoculars, no outward sign that he was even aware of the movie.

Nite Owl thought about the storage room, the foldout of the erect cock that had been at Rorschach’s feet (on the screen: another flushed, frantic fuck). “Refuse,” he had called it.

God, he had to get his mind off this, get back to work. Yet despite his admonition to himself, Nite Owl’s eyes locked onto to the screen. The woman – the one with the curly brown hair who wore nothing but a long, beaded necklace – had her head tilted to the side and back, her face contorted into what would seem like an expression of pain if it wasn’t so familiar (on the women in the _Dark Angel_ centerfolds, in the mirror in _her_ boudoir, and then there were those dreams he always denied yet secretly welcomed…). The scene cut away to another shot of a cock pounding into a pussy.

Nite Owl could feel Rorschach suddenly move. He looked and saw Rorschach raising his arm, as if he were ready to throw the binoculars to the ground. Before Nite Owl could protest, Rorschach remembered himself, grasped them with both of his hands instead.

“Stupid idea,” Rorschach finally said. “We should go.”

“Go?” Nite Owl asked, hoping the stupid disappointment he was feeling wasn’t edging into his voice.

“Too dangerous. I didn’t know there would be so many here. Too much room for error. Lapses. We’ll return later. After showings. Can find more clues, then.”

“No!”

Rorschach ignored him. He walked to the door, ready to move the chair away. Nite Owl grabbed his shoulders, forced Rorschach to look at him. As he did so, he vaguely registered that the women in the movie were talking again.

“Come on, man. You know that’s stupid. They may have already found the busted roof door. By the time we get back the perp may have destroyed all the evidence, moved the operation. You taught me that.”

Rorschach knocked Nite Owl’s arms off of him. “Don’t touch me! Would have been fine looking for evidence. You wanted to waste time. Wanted to watch this disgusting filth.”

Nite Owl didn’t respond. The outburst hit him more than he’d expected. Rorschach had always been a prude, and this wasn’t the first time his rages against the decadence and corruption of society had been directed at him, but to be seen so transparently, so close …

In the silence between them, he heard one of the women say, “There you go again, you want to get off or do you want to destroy a city?”

If they were characters in the movie, that would have been the moment that shattered the tension, made them both laugh and pat each other on the back, all soreness forgotten. Nite Owl _wanted_ to laugh, this was so absurd really, two partners who had survived the Underboss and Big Figure and a hundred other hoodlums getting into a fight over a dirty movie.

Rorschach was just so damn tense (his body taut like a wire) and _Victorian_ and…

Raising his hand to make an offering, Nite Owl said, “I know this place makes you uncomfortable. It offends you. That crowd outside wasn’t what I was expecting either. But hang in there. The longer we stick around, the better our chances of catching Mr. Big and shutting all this down. No more little old ladies standing in line to see a porno, all right?”

That seemed to click in his brain. Nite Owl thought he could see the anger evaporate from Rorschach like steam. _That’s it, think about the little old ladies_.

“I’ll wait. For a little longer, Daniel.”

As a show of good faith, Nite Owl turned his back to the window and crossed his arms over his chest. “If there are no sweepers counting heads in the audience, we need to plan our next step. Maybe there’s a man selling popcorn downstairs you can intimidate…” He swiveled and saw Rorschach staring out the window. The binoculars weren’t in his hands. He was watching the movie.

“Uh.” Brows creased with curiosity, Nite Owl swiveled a bit more. The woman, Miss Lovelace, was talking to her doctor about her desire for an orgasm—“ _bells ringing, bombs bursting in air!_ ”

The doctor bounced across the room, waving a miniature American flag and singing hammily, “ _Gave proooof through the night, that our flaaaag was still theeeeere!_ ”

A furious sound rumbled out of Rorschach and Nite Owl thought, _this is it, if they start to screw in front of a portrait of President Truman no one will get out of this theatre alive_.

But the damndest thing happened: the audience below clapped and guffawed. The young couples and the middle class men from Queens and the little old ladies. Ordinary Joes. Not like the two men in masks watching above them all.

Rorschach exhaled an unamused little snort. “This film is nothing but disrespectful, un-American filth. People like…this?”

“Sure.” Nite Owl shrugged. Words crammed on his tongue; he struggled to say the right ones. “People…like sex. There’s nothing more American than sex.” He cringed even as he added, “Unless it’s a ménage a trois?”

Rorschach shuddered visibly and audibly, a process Nite Owl thought looked painful, given the tenseness of his partner’s body. “Can’t be satisfied with being perverse,” Rorschach muttered. “Makes a mockery of everything.”

Nite Owl wasn’t sure if that was directed at him or the film. Maybe he needed to go about this a different way.

“I don’t think it’s a mockery. It’s a release. Some people –” he stopped and started again when he realized that could be taken as accusatory, “a lot of those people down there, they find this embarrassing.”

Rorschach’s head turned toward the screen. Nite Owl looked and saw Miss Lovelace sitting on the floor, her legs spread wide so that every detail of her vagina was visible. The doctor sat next to her, prodding the area with a black and white telescope.

“Can’t imagine why,” Rorschach said sarcastically.

“Yeah, but being embarrassed about a feeling doesn’t mean it goes away.”

Rorschach looked at Nite Owl, the dark blots of his mask flowing upward as if imitating the eyes beneath. “Can make it go away.”

Nite Owl’s breath caught. The loud whirring of the movie projector seemed to echo the beating of his heart. He reached forward, ran his fingers down along the leather of Rorschach’s trenchcoat collar, against his partner’s chest. “Can you?” he asked, his voice so soft he wasn’t sure Rorschach heard it.

Then the movie shattered the spell. Nite Owl looked back at the screen as the doctor cried out, pointing excitedly down the mouth of Linda Lovelace, “Well, there it is! Why you little bugger! There it is!”

“What?” Lovelace asked.

“Why, your clitoris. It’s deep down in the bottom of your throat!”

As Lovelace started to cry, the audience erupted into laughter again. When Nite Owl looked back at Rorschach, he saw his partner’s eyes had returned to the screen.

“See what I mean?” Nite Owl said. “Nobody could take this seriously or think it’s real. They like it because it’s a joke … because it’s a fantasy.”

“Hurm. Fantasies,” Rorschach repeated as if the word itself were something ridiculous.

Nite Owl said amiably, “Like you’ve never had one? C’mon, Rorschach, I know you’re not a robot. You’re as hot blooded as any of us.”

“’Us?’” Rorschach’s head cocked accusingly.

Warmth surged up Nite Owl’s face. Then he felt chagrin. Okay, Rorschach was hideously repressed, but that didn’t mean Dan had to pretend to be. “Yeah, _us_. Them, me…you. Us.”

“You shouldn’t presume to include me in your--”

Nite Owl gripped his shoulder, pulling him closer. Rorschach swallowed sharply. Nite Owl’s smile widened. “Nah, nah—you don’t have to be so self-righteous with me, buddy. This,” he gestured vaguely at the screen (at the image of the doctor pulling down his bright white pants), “Gets under your skin. But is it because you hate it, or because you think you should hate it…but you don’t?”

A hiss behind clenched teeth. “Meant what I said.”

Lowering his voice, Nite Owl loosened his hold on his partner’s shoulder and patted it confidentially. “It’s not immoral to fantasize…to want something. Let your id run loose once in a while. As long as no one’s getting hurt. The folks down there aren’t the criminals.”

Rorschach’s angry breathing stabilized. “And you?”

“Hmm?”

“What is it _you_ want?”

He blinked. Then shook his head to dismiss it and released his breath through parted lips. “No, no…you’re right, I’m being ridiculous. We should get going before that guy comes back from the world’s longest cigarette break.”

He took a step but Rorschach blocked his escape. Ah, no hasty exit for Nite Owl. “You started this,” he reminded him.

Nite Owl scratched at the hair under his cowl. His mouth formed an awkward line. “Oh man, it’s crazy. Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

Cold silence. Then the music began to play behind them. That awful, shrill, hilarious music. And the sounds of sex it carried. Nite Owl almost laughed. It really was crazy, but what the hell?

He reached out like a man who realized, _hey, I don’t need that arm, anyway_ and brushed Rorschach’s mask. Black bloomed under his fingers, where he felt the edge of his mouth.

“This.”

For what seemed to Nite Owl a long, agonizing moment, Rorschach did nothing. It scared Nite Owl far worse than any punch. His mind raced thinking about Rorschach but also images from those magazines which featured men together, often wearing leather and bondage masks. He’d never admitted either to anyone before, and then with one word he’d put it all out there.

But for Rorschach that long moment was barely an instant, one he clung to desperately, not wanting to make the devil’s bargain of admitting either anything Nite Owl said or that when he’d stopped Nite Owl from leaving this kind of sick proposition had always been in the back of his mind. It was foolish, Rorschach thought. He knew his partner had … fixations, moral lapses … but the idea that Nite Owl would somehow have had such a reaction to his own degeneracy was something Rorschach hadn’t considered. Why hadn’t he been more careful? Why had he led Nite Owl to this disgusting place? He … He … He couldn’t concentrate.

“This music,” Rorschach said. “It’s really terrible.”

Fuck, Nite Owl thought. He’s deflecting again. Nite Owl stepped to the side, ready to walk out for real. Then Rorschach grabbed his shoulders, held him in place.

“So, you don’t want to leave?”

Rorschach made a noise that Nite Owl couldn’t decipher, like he had tried to say something and nothing had come out. He gripped Nite Owl’s shoulders harder, and Nite Owl took that as assent.

Nite Owl untied the belt of Rorschach’s trenchcoat. He got down on his knees, and the floor felt cold and hard beneath the skintight fabric of his costume. As Nite Owl ran his hands up Rorschach’s legs, following the pinstripe pattern with his fingers, Rorschach still had Nite Owl’s shoulders in a vise grip. Rorschach squeezed tight enough to hurt as Nite Owl unbuckled Rorschach’s belt, opened his trousers with a loud zip. Nite Owl reached into Rorschach’s boxers, coaxed out his cock with a leather-encased hand.

“Just relax your muscles …” sang the movie. And Nite Owl had to smile a little bit before he opened his mouth, took Rorschach inside.

Rorschach gasped at the sensation, barely able to register the cool air on his skin before being enveloped in warm, wet heat. He’d been hard almost instantly when Nite Owl dipped down (the tool of his sickness had always been traitorous, had always disobeyed his will and followed the urges) and Daniel’s tongue, his _tongue_ —

Nite Owl swallowed as much as he could—too much, almost. He pulled back a bit, moistening his lips, and before Rorschach could moan in protest he went down again. He licked experimentally at the head, tasting Rorschach’s skin. The slightly sour, gym locker smell of him did nothing to curb his lust; it reminded him that this was real, not fantasy or film. He gripped the base of his cock in the tight ring of his fist, stroking upwards as he tried to suck again.

Funny, he thought, the crowd watching Linda Lovelace perform fellatio onscreen were completely unaware of the real show happening inches away from the projector. Between the music, Rorschach’s breaths, the rattling projector and the beats of his own panicky heart, a bomb could have exploded right outside the door and he wouldn’t have heard a sound.

Rorschach felt similarly vulnerable. He tried to keep aware, listen for a rattling doorknob or movement in the hall, but his mind betrayed him even worse than his body. Nite Owl’s hand was so firm, so strong, and that roughness combined with the softness of Nite Owl’s mouth was too much. The rest of the world fell away, became nothing but the sensations of wet, friction and shame. Lost, he bit his lip, chewing on a piece of his mask in the process, and told himself not to cry out.

Nite Owl stopped sucking for a moment, eager to catch a breath. He licked with more eagerness now, running his tongue up and down along Rorschach’s cock. Rorschach let out strangled, furtive sounds. Nite Owl tasted the salty liquid of Rorschach’s precome. God, he thought, never had an idea so impulsive, stupid and dangerous resulted in anything like this. Nite Owl’s erection strained against his suit. He tried to ignore it as he took Rorschach inside his mouth again. Nite Owl moved his hands to Rorschach’s ass, gripped onto them and pushed him forward, trying to take as much of him in as possible. That time Rorschach didn’t hold back.

The strangled gasp, that loss of control, was almost too much for Nite Owl to take. He wanted to move his hand, rub his prick, but his codpiece was in the way. He could undo his belt and free himself and risk ruining this rhythm. Would Rorschach panic if he exposed himself, the part of his brain not focused on cock sucking wondered? The hand remained fastened on his partner’s hip.

A second moan, more desperate and high-pitched. Close, close, close—

Lips slipping to the tip, then plunging down again. The wiry hairs at the base, dark in the dim light, tickled his nostrils. He could feel the tension in Rorschach’s thighs. The mounting urgency. He struggled to keep going without a pause for breath. _Hang on, buddy, hang on…_

Rorschach had been keeping his chin held high, not wanting to look down and have the image of his partner on his knees burned into his mind (If he could spare Daniel one indignity, let it be that). But his hand trembled forward—another disobedient body part—and touched the top of Daniel’s head.

“Hnng,” Rorschach said at the new contact. But it wasn’t enough. Fingers spread like claws, they slid under the top of his cowl, pushing it askew. He felt the wisps of hair, damp with sweat (he had never touched Daniel’s hair before) and _grabbed_ , clutching, holding him closer.

Nite Owl nearly choked. But not out of pain. Squeezing his eyes shut he hummed his pleasure, sending vibrations down Rorschach’s cock and up his spine.

Then Rorschach heard it—the bells ringing, the bombs going off in his ears, inside his mind. Fireworks.

His head flew back, slamming against the wall, and without further warning he came inside Nite Owl’s mouth. The sensation was electrifyingly obscene. (Only later would he realize that the bells and whistles had been the movie’s insipid, cartoonish soundtrack; it hadn’t been inside _him_ , no never.) He wasn’t even aware of Nite Owl slipping free, coughing the issue into a trash can.

When the strange, decadent vibrations in Rorschach’s head died down, he opened his eyes. Nite Owl had his back to Rorschach, his hand pressed against the far wall as he stood on shaky legs. Rorschach treated himself gently as he adjusted his boxers, pulled up his pants.

“Daniel?”

Nite Owl didn’t answer. As Rorschach approached him, he could hear his partner breathing in frustrated, hard bursts. The movie piped up, “You’ve saved my life. I’m a fulfilled woman.” Rorschach grumbled and tried to ignore it.

“Daniel?” he repeated.

“I just …” Nite Owl grunted, still wouldn’t look at him, “I just need a few minutes.”

Rorschach didn’t need to look to know what was happening. (He could … maybe. But not yet.) He knew Daniel had proclivities he didn’t share, but Daniel’s need to unleash them so desperately caused a lewd fascination to bubble inside him. Seeing his partner like this at any other time would have horrified him, but that sensation from before echoed in his head.

He wanted to turn away and give Daniel privacy. Perhaps Daniel even wanted it that way, was giving him a way out. It would be easy to take it, to turn away from this repulsive transgression (and it was only a transgression, this would never happen again).

Yet Daniel had lowered himself before him. It was needless. Degrading. Even with his transgressions, Daniel was still a good man, a strong man. Yet he’d gotten onto his knees like a (no, he could never apply that word, not to Daniel) for him. The very idea repulsed him. Was Daniel’s sickness so deep? Yet how much had he contributed, led Daniel further in his fall?

_It’s not right._

“You,” Rorschach’s throat spasmed in a silent gulp, “you need my help?”

Nite Owl turned around so quickly he bumped against the wall. He couldn’t have just heard that. And yet Rorschach was already crouched on the ground, rolling up his mask. Nite Owl didn’t understand but this calm acquiescence turned him on more than anything he’d ever seen in a stroke book.

As Rorschach edged toward him, touched his cock in the same reluctant, halting way in which Nite Owl had earlier touched his mask, Nite Owl wished for a moment they were somewhere else. Part of him had always hoped this would happen, but he’d hoped for a quiet night and a safe and private place where Rorschach would open up to him like this. He hadn’t wanted it to be here, with a horrible movie playing and exposure a door away.

Then he felt Rorschach’s mouth on his cock. His sucks were a bit too hard and sporadic. Once Nite Owl yelled as Rorschach’s teeth slipped. Yet was him, it was Rorschach. Nite Owl pressed against the wall, and realized with some embarrassment that his fantasy probably wouldn’t have gotten him this hot.

The taste was better than expected. Clean. The organ felt surprisingly heavy on his tongue, though there was no real difference in size or girth than Rorschach’s. (No, after a second’s thought, he was just a little bit thicker, in the way that Daniel was always larger than Rorschach.) He had absorbed the available details as if Daniel were a crime scene to be investigated, as if his body was a room that could be scoured for improvised weapons: he was circumcised, he had a thick thatch of dark hair trailing up his navel, there was a vein on the underside of his member that he could trace with the tip of his tongue if he wanted to, but he didn’t.

Nite Owl murmured incoherent encouragements, his jaw slack and his full, moistened lips wide and open as if still committing indecent acts. Distracted, Rorschach let the cock slip out of his mouth; the pink tip, glazed with saliva, brushed his cheek.

 

Above him, Daniel moaned at the feel of skin. Rorschach’s face. It was so rare that he saw even a hint of it, had once nursed fantasies that he’d be able to touch it with his fingers. He never imagined he’d be able to do anything like this. Nite Owl thrust forward, hoping to touch Rorschach’s face again. Instead, Rorschach took him in his hand (a black leather glove, Oh God). He imitated Nite Owl’s earlier ministrations, jerking him off as he sucked. Nite Owl grabbed the edges of his cape, twisted it his hands as Rorschach squeezed.

“Hurts,” Nite Owl whispered. “Not so hard …” As soon as he said it, he found himself wondering if that could be a pun in the movie. Man, he thought as Rorschach’s touches slowed, his life was insane.

Rorschach could feel the end was near; it was in his breathing, the way he moved his hips forward, wanting everything Rorschach’s mouth and hand could give. He would oblige Daniel. His debt would be paid in full (then he could forget the fire pit in his belly, the sparks in his brain, the tingles on his tongue). He sucked sloppily, frantically, the sensitive glans brushing the roof of his mouth.

“Buddy,” Nite Owl warned. “Buddy, I’m com--” he broke off with a low, rumbling moan, like there was an earthquake in his body.

And then the fluid was in Rorschach’s mouth—a hot, thick jet of it—and not even the thought _Daniel’s, it’s Daniel’s_ could stop him from turning his head to spit it out, though unlike Nite Owl he didn’t have the tact to aim for the trashcan.

Breathing deeply, Nite Owl readjusted himself and fixed his costume. His belt buckle snapped loudly and his cowl was still slightly askew, bits of hair poking out like feathers. He swallowed, mouth suddenly cottony. Rorschach accepted the hand he offered and was pulled up. Nite Owl caught the briefest glimpse of Rorschach’s come-dampened lips before he yanked the mask back down.

“That was…” Nite Owl started to say, but something in Rorschach’s posture, the way he hung his head, stopped him. “Hey.” Rorschach lifted his head. “That was okay, right? We’re okay?” He looked hard at the man in front of him, at the dark liquid shapes on his mask (what would he see this time?) and held out his hand to touch him again.

He didn’t get the chance.

A bell rang – a real one this time – and as if on some sort of cue the door burst open with a loud bang, sending the chair skittering off to the side. Nite Owl expected to see the projectionist in the doorframe, and his mouth opened when instead he heard a long, theatrical, and very familiar sigh.

Twilight Lady walked into the room as if it were a runway, one hand on her hip (where a long, mean-looking whip was attached) her stiletto boots taping loudly against the floor. “Well now, you ask a man to do one simple job and look what happens.” She turned to Nite Owl, her face brightening in a smile. “Nite Owl, darling! What a pleasant surprise! Why didn’t you tell me you were dropping by? I could have just gotten box seats for you and your friend.”

Seeing her there, so soon after what they had done, left Nite Owl tongue-tied. Rorschach wasn’t so stunned. He stepped forward. “So you’re the one behind this!”

“Hey, hold that thought for one second, would you?” Twilight Lady walked to the non-running projector. She turned it on, as well as a lamp above it, then placed a booted foot over a small pedal on the floor and held the projector’s switch. She pressed the switch, then after waiting a few seconds, her tongue licking her red lips in concentration, she pressed the pedal.

Nite Owl felt Rorschach looking at him. He shrugged. Twilight Lady hummed what Nite Owl realized with horror was the _Deep Throat_ theme song, then turned off the first projector and its lamp.

At last, Twilight Lady focused her attention back to the two of them. “There! Wouldn’t want our patrons to miss the next half of the picture. Have you seen it? It features a very lively set piece involving a speculum and some Coca-Cola.”

Nite Owl’s brain unwillingly tried to conjure up the scene. _No. No_ , he told himself. _Pay attention_. “We don’t have time for games, Leslie. The profits from the theatre. We know they’re not just going to the projectionist and the popcorn guy. Where does it go? Are you in league with the mob or is it just lining your pockets?”

Twilight Lady gasped and slapped one of her hands against her cheek. “Oh, isn’t this exciting? You sound like a regular noir hero when you talk like that. I knew I’d love running a theatre. It just imbibes everything with a sense of Hollywood.”

“Answer the question, whore.” Rorschach pointed at her threateningly, but Nite Owl’s arm cut in front of his chest, stopping him in place.

Looking at her, Nite Owl thought briefly of how Twilight Lady had changed. Her out-of-fashion beehive was gone, replaced with a high ponytail that swept down to her lower back. And the fishnets were new, he realized (only paying attention because there had been a time when he had every inch of her memorized, every scrap of leather). The last he’d heard, she’d skipped off to Paris after making parole. It was not so surprising seeing her in the New Amsterdam, making a home for herself among the pornographic reels and painted nymphs on the walls.

Nor was Rorschach entirely surprised. Twilight Lady had always had an… _influence_ on Nite Owl. Of course it had been her cathedral of carnality that had taken over him and made him give in to animal instincts, made them _both_ …wait, what had she said about Coca-Cola?

“We’re all too old for games, Leslie,” Nite Owl said, his voice authoritative and stripped of the affection he had once held for her. “Tell us where the money is.”

“Oh,” Twilight Lady moaned, twisting her mouth into a seductive pout. “You’re no fun.” She stretched and struck a pose, one hand on her hip and the other holding her whip behind her back. “If you must know, all the money located on these premises I earned as an honest proprietor of the theatre. It’s really wonderful work if you can get it. It offered me the possibility of my own little projects.” She thwacked her whip against the poster on the wall. “Like it?”

“Not the full story,” Rorschach insisted. He stepped forward, into Nite Owl’s arm, but didn’t push past it. “Know there are criminals collecting on _Deep Throat_. Must know it, too.”

“Ah, that, yes,” Twilight Lady twirled a strand of her long, red hair between her fingers. “Yes, that is true. Somebody does look after, shall we say, the distribution rights for this film. Not me. You know I like to work on a small scale. But I can’t deny what our adoring public wants.”

“So you work with the mob?”

Twilight Lady snorted. “You see that work in the second floor lobby? The State of New York would want me to pay thousands to fix it and then would watch my operation like hawks for obscenity. Now, I’m not the type to hold one of those live sex shows here – well, those days are behind me.” She gave Nite Owl a wink that made him blush. “But I can’t stop what my girlfriends do. They need money as much as moi. I also can’t afford those repairs with my own films – not when my competitors are making so much money thanks to Miss Lovelace. It’s all a messy business, not very sexy. But surely you can understand a little businesswoman in need.”

“No,” Rorschach sneered. “You just confessed to complicity with the mob and allowing prostitution in your theatre.”

Nite Owl nodded. “Tell us who you’re working with, Leslie. Now!”

With a mock-frown, Twilight Lady pretended to buff her (gloved) fingers on the front of her catsuit. “This is why it never worked out between us, my little chickadee--” at this, Rorschach spit venom, “You never took me out to dinner and a show.”

Nite Owl moved quickly to grab hold of her, but with a mad grin she kicked him, slashing his chest with her stiletto heel. He reeled back with a grunt, knocking into a very angry Rorschach. Dazedly he looked up in time to see her blow him a kiss. Her lips were Technicolor red.

“Bye bye, birdie.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she ran out the door.

“Damn,” Nite Owl whispered. He and Rorschach chased her out into the hallway, down a flight of steps that led to the second floor lobby. Twilight Lady’s red hair flew behind her like a banner as she slipped down another staircase. This time the stairs led into the auditorium proper, and Nite Owl could hear the gasps and whispers of the patrons as they chased her. A song that involved the liberal use of slide whistles poisoned the air. Nite Owl looked up at the screen, saw Lovelace’s vagina stretched by a glass cylinder, a man’s hand pouring the contents of a can of Coca-Cola inside it. He realized this was probably the only time that image would be the second most shocking thing happening in the room.

Twilight Lady reached one of the lower exit doors. As she ran out she closed it with a slam that echoed through the theatre. Rorschach reached it first. He opened it, but by the time they were out, the Twilight Lady had run clear down the alleyway.

They were fast enough that Nite Owl could see she had run to the left. Unfortunately, when they reached 42nd Street they found that glimpse didn’t matter much at all. A new crowd – a similar motley group of the ordinary and the unusual – had already lined up in front of the theatre for the next showing. Rorschach and Nite Owl pushed through the crowd for the next few minutes, enduring the gasps, insults and occasional angry shove back, but neither found a trace of her.

Eventually, Nite Owl escaped into one of the alleys near the New Amsterdam. Rorschach joined him after a few minutes.

“The Owlship,” Rorschach said as he ran up to Nite Owl, “still time.”

Nite Owl shook his head, rested the back of it against the wall of the New Amsterdam. “Even with the spotlights I don’t know if we’ll be able to pick her out in the crowd from so high up.”

Rorschach let out a growl of frustration. “In the end, useless waste. All of it.”

The words felt like a lance in Nite Owl’s chest. “You can’t mean …”

“Hurm,” Rorschach crossed his arms. “Don’t need to speak of that.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. They’d been caught up in the fantasy of the movie, the theatre—but they weren’t in the theatre anymore. They’d gone too fast, and now that reality had reasserted itself Nite Owl was glad that Rorschach was even speaking to him about not speaking to him. He’d acquiesce, even though his _want_ still stung more than Twilight Lady’s kick.

“We know Twilight Lady’s running the show,” he said, hoping that much could console him. “She’ll resurface soon. She likes the spotlight too much. And we’ll catch her.”

“Yes,” Rorschach agreed, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “We will.”

 _We_. It was nice to hear.

“Come on.” Nite Owl gestured to the mouth of the alley. “You want a bite to eat?”

Rorschach replied with a “Hurm” that meant “Yes.” (As Nite Owl hoped he would, because Rorschach was always hungry and Nite Owl always paid.)

They stepped out of the alley and were met with cheers and wolf whistles from the crowd lingering on the busted sidewalk. Nite Owl waved and gave an awkward half-smile. Rorschach merely trudged along.

There was a hot dog cart across the street that probably did insane business late at night when the junkies had their cravings. The mustached vendor rounded his eyes when he saw his latest customers trotting across the street, between the yellow cabs.

“Hi!” Nite Owl greeted, with an  _I know, this is kinda crazy, I’m sorry_ look on his face the man would have noticed if he hadn’t be entranced by Rorschach’s mask. “Two,” he said, holding up his fingers, “With everything on it.”

Quickly shoveling onions, mustard, and relish on the two warm franks, the vendor passed them off to the pair of masked heroes and accepted Nite Owl’s dollars in his sweaty palm. Nite Owl didn’t hesitate to take a bite as they retraced their steps. It helped. The quivering in his belly had ceased. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Rorschach looking at him, and quickly licked a spot of mustard off his lip. “What?”

“Hot dogs,” he stated. “They’re not kosher.”

“You know I don’t keep kosher, Rorschach,” he replied, slapping him genially on the back. “This is the second one I’ve had tonight.”

Rorschach choked.

The End.  
(And Deep Throat to you all.)


	2. Bonus Chapter!

Dan didn’t think again about the incident until weeks later. Laurie had invited him to D.C. for a dinner party at the apartment she shared with Jon, who had in turn invited Adrian. Mid-way through the meal (a beef brisket that Laurie proudly announced came from a kosher butcher – Dan thanked her and didn’t have the heart to tell her about the “must be cooked in a kosher pot” rule), Adrian mentioned seeing _Deep Throat_.

“I went last week,” Adrian said. He swirled his cup of wine – a white brand that was his contribution to the meal – and sipped before speaking again. “It was a fascinating experience.”

Laurie looked up at Adrian. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and to Dan’s eyes seemed to have left a scowl in the place of her food. “You call _Deep Throat_ a fascinating experience?”

“Sure. People from all walks of life, coming together to watch pornography? It means America is finally throwing off its puritanical values, coming to a new understanding of sexuality.”

Laurie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well. I like sex and all, that doesn’t mean I like watching it in a theater full of strangers. Especially for a movie that’s fucking stupid.”

Dan looked down at his food. _Don’t say anything_ , he thought.

“Stupid?” Adrian exclaimed. “Pornographic movies have never had such a great leap forward in storytelling and direction. The industry is really trying to make its mark as an artform.”

“Oh yeah, ‘girl only gets off giving head’ is right up there with the films of Godard.”

“I really like this brisket,” Dan said, inserting a big forkful of it into his mouth for emphasis. Alas, that didn’t stop the conversation.

“I think you’re being far too harsh,” Adrian said. “It’s an interesting gimmick.”

“It’s stupid,” Laurie said. She took a gulp of her wine, and then slammed the glass back on the table as if to somehow emphasize her point, “The whole movie is stupid and the music is terrible. I can’t believe anyone finds it sexy.”

Adrian shrugged. “Well, I thought some of the oral sex scenes were rather unique.”

Dan tapped the fork against his table, then went back to eating.

“So she swallows a bunch of huge cocks? That’s interesting maybe once, not ten times. And then there was a whole scene where Linda Lovelace just shaves her pussy for like, five minutes,” Laurie groaned. “I mean, what the hell? I can see that at home anytime I want.”

Dan swallowed so hard he felt himself gag on the meat. He covered his mouth with a napkin as he coughed.

“Dan, are you all right?” Laurie asked.

Dan nodded and sipped from his water glass. “I’m fine.” He looked up to see Jon staring back at him. “How are you, Jon?”

“Fine,” he said. “Sorry if my silence is being interpreted as rude. I don’t like movies.”

“Well, Dan’s been silent as well,” Adrian said, giving him a smile. “What did you think of it?”

“Um,” Dan took off his glasses, rubbed them on his shirt. “Well, I …”

“You’ve seen it?” Laurie asked.

“Of course he has. I saw in the Gazette he and Rorschach were spotted at The New Amsterdam theatre while it was playing.”

Laurie had the wide-eyed, open-mouthed look of a girl who’d just heard the year’s best gossip. “No way, really? In costume?”

“We were checking out a crime,” Dan said.

“Hah. Sure,” she said, in a sarcastic way that drew out the “u.” “I bet Rorschach just wanted to go. He seems like a pervert. It was his idea, wasn’t it?”

Dan looked at his hands, then at Laurie. “Yes,” he said as he put back on his glasses.

Laurie laughed, and the topic of conversation shifted to Adrian’s new business ventures. As Dan continued to eat, he realized he actually hadn’t lied.

The End.


End file.
